Unsouled
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: “No man can by any means redeem his brother, or give to God a ransom for him, for the redemption of his soul is costly.” Psalm 49: 7-8a. Completes loose trilogy with "Souled" and "Resouled."


_Previously appeared in _Hunting Trips 3_ (2008), from Neon Rainbow Press_

**Unsouled**  
K Hanna Korossy

"I'm still your brother, Dean."

"No, Sam. You're not." Dean spoke as flatly and emotionlessly as his companion, if for completely different reasons. It was only the name he almost tripped over. He shut the Impala's door heavily, cringing for once at the creak of metal, and headed for the motel room without looking back to see if he was being followed.

"Then why are you letting me come back with you?" There did seem to be genuine interest in the words. Curiosity apparently wasn't housed in a person's soul.

"Because," Dean said wearily, and wondered why he bothered answering at all. "This isn't permanent, okay?" He unlocked the door and finally turned. "You coming?"

Funny how even his body language had changed. Sam's lanky figure moved more smoothly now, with a pared-down efficiency Dean usually only saw when they were hunting. The shy gawkiness was gone, and with a pang he realized he missed that, too.

The piece of Sam he had left, walked past him into the room without looking at Dean, and he was grateful for that. Of all the things that were different now, the eyes had changed the most. Dean had seen them too much as it was.

He watched the tall figure move around the room: claiming the far bed with an emotionless glance at him, unloading weapons with a comfort Sam rarely showed, then a change of clothes. He looked up at Dean, and Dean glanced immediately away.

"I'm going to shower."

Not a question. Courtesy and concern for what he wanted was also gone. "Go for it," Dean said quietly anyway.

There was no pause, no soft glance trying to figure out what was bothering him and how to make it better. Just a shift of air as the bathroom door closed on his face, the lock clicking audibly after.

Dean sank into a chair and rubbed his face with a hand. Now what?  
The truth of the matter was, he didn't even know really what had happened. Oh, the end result was clear, but the how? It didn't make sense, and no matter how much he turned it over in his head, the only answer he came up with was impossible.

You couldn't lose your soul unless you gave it up of your own free will.

They'd thought differently once. A demon had claimed to take Dean's soul not long before, leaving him little more than a wind-up doll, if Sam's descriptions were any indication. He'd returned to himself with the demon's death. Only when they'd started digging afterward, down deep into the old Truths they didn't usually dare venture into, did they discover that inviolate rule: nothing or no one could take your immortal soul from you against your will. Whatever the demon had stolen from Dean then, it hadn't been that.

Not like Sam's was gone now.

Ever since Meg had drawn the parameters of the field of competition, new players kept showing up. They'd been tracing a gremlin through a sewage plant when another of Meg's kin had shown up. And Dean Winchester, king of the last-minute rescue, had arrived at the control room just a half-second too late. Just in time to see the flash, Sam wobble, and the demon vanish. By the time he'd dashed across the room, it wasn't his brother he was rushing to. Meg's team had won another round.

The loss hadn't left him the automaton Dean had been. No, this version of Sam spoke and walked and thought and responded. It knew who Dean was, had Sam's every memory, and even sharper skills.

Apparently, losing your humanity made you ruthlessly effective.

This Sam's eyes were cold and dark. No compassion softened his voice; no concern gentled his touch. Hard pragmatism had taken the place of Sam's aching concern for others. The grief that had lingered from Jessica's death was gone, but so was the love that had prompted it. And when his gaze touched his older brother, there was no affection in it, no bond of twenty-two years.

It hurt. The loneliness of the Stanford years couldn't hold a candle to missing Sam so badly when he was in the same room.

The shower cut off, and Dean's expression set. He rose and began unpacking his own bag, unwilling to let any hint of his feelings show. This Sam would have no reservations about taking advantage of them if it would benefit him.

The door opened, and Dean watched the figure come out into the room, toweling its hair. "So, what's the next job?"

"Why do you care?" slipped out before he could stop himself.

An offhand shrug. "I don't have anyplace else to be."

Dean gritted his teeth. "You could get killed, you know, doing our kind of work."

"You won't let me." The smile wasn't cruel, just cool. A statement of fact. Sam without a soul wasn't evil, not trying to hurt, he just didn't care if he did. "If I don't like it, I can always take off."

"Yeah, right when I need you," Dean muttered.

"Whatever." With no regards for feelings, there was little reason to lie, either.

Dean's hands slowed, stopped. He half-turned, asking almost casually over his shoulder. "So, you gonna tell me what happened back there?"

"Why? You already know."

Flash, wobble, vanish, scream. That last had probably been him. Dean remembered every second in slow motion. "I know what happened to you. I want to know how."

Unfamiliar eyes, all essence of Sam absent from them, examined him. Dean wondered what they saw, how the inability to feel would interpret the pain that was probably etched in his own face. "The demon took my soul," Sam finally said, as if he were talking about missing laundry.

"We both know it doesn't happen like that," Dean said just as levelly. "You don't lose your soul without giving it up. Why would you give it away?" He kept resisting the urge to tack a gentle "Sam" to the end of every line. This wasn't his brother, not his Sam.

The broad shoulders shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it didn't matter."

"I don't believe that."

Another shrug, followed by a nice view of Sam's back. Conversation over. Dean had already been cut off like that twice; without caring about their relationship or Dean's feelings, there was no reason for his companion to talk if it didn't want to. Dean was the only one with anything to lose here and they both knew it. If Sam hadn't wanted to come back with him, if he wanted to leave now…

"I'm going to get something to eat—you want anything?"

The moments like that, slips of apparent concern that were habit rather than feeling, made Sam sound briefly like Sam, and made Dean wince. He turned away. "No."

The motel room door shut on his silence a few seconds later.

Dean stared at it a long moment, then fished out the laptop.

Okay, he could figure this out. Searching the dark corners of the internet was more Sam's thing, but it wasn't like Dean sucked at it. It was just boring when he could be out doing something fun, and geek boy had always excelled at research. Dean spared a thought to wonder if that part of his brother was still intact, and figured probably yes, if without the shiny-eyed pleasure. Not that Sam would help him in this search; he'd made his feelings plenty clear on that subject back at the sewage plant. Souls made you weak, and he was better off without his.

The loss also obviously dropped your intelligence a few points. No, Dean would have to do this one alone. Somehow.

He lost track of time. The door reopened after a while, and Dean barely spared it a glance. He didn't even get that much in return. His roommate stripped down—embarrassment had gone out the window, too, it seemed—and crawled into bed.

"Dude, naked?" Dean asked with just a touch of remembered amusement. "You know where those sheets have been?"

"No place I haven't," Sam said matter-of-factly, and rolled onto his side.

That made Dean look up. Finally notice the lingering cheap perfume in the air and the disarray of Sam's hair. And clenched his eyes shut against a flare of raw anger as it dawned on him what else had been picked up besides food. Dean was the love-'em-and-leave-'em one in their partnership; Sam had higher standards than that, and would hate what he'd done once he was himself again.

But it wasn't like something was borrowing his body and doing things with it Dean's brother never would have thought of. It _was _Sam. Some part of him, anyway, just absent morality, or a sense of humor. This Sam probably wouldn't think twice about rape if he wanted a girl and thought he could get away with it. Dean shuddered at the thought. They would have to stay together 24/7 until he figured this out. He _had _to figure this out. Sam would ruin them both if he didn't.

Dean's eyes went back to the laptop. "What about Jess?"

The voice was drowsy. "What about her?"

"I guess she doesn't matter anymore?" Dean arched an eyebrow.

"Why should she? She's dead, Dean."

He didn't like the way this Sam said his name, like he was talking about a stranger, but couldn't help a moment of selfish gratification that Sam didn't care about Jessica any more than he did Dean.

Yeah, he really was that selfish.

"So why keep hunting?" Dean asked, honestly curious.

"It's something to do. And I enjoy it." Sam's body rolled a little more away from him. "I'm going to sleep."

Dean's mouth may have fallen open; he wasn't sure. By the time he could think again, he was just staring dumbfoundedly at the bed. _Enjoy _it? Sam's soul made the difference between loving and hating what they did?

Well, okay, that did make sense in a weird kind of way. Sam had always suffered too much for the victims, hated the killing, and longed for the friends and uprightly moral life Dean had never known. Those were probably the qualities of a soul.

Dean really didn't want to think about what that said about him, though.

"Good-night," he murmured, not expecting an answer and not getting one. With a tic of the jaw, he went back to his search, trying not to feel like he was suffocating.

The answers, however, were still the same. You could hurt a soul, squelch it with possession, hide it with influence, but not take it without consent. Dean considered the other possibilities, but dismissed them without doubt. Even the possessed showed some emotion. It wasn't evil Dean saw in his brother's eyes; it was…nothing.

Which meant Sam had consented. Which didn't make sense; they risked their lives on a daily basis, but the immortal soul was something else. It was what guaranteed they'd see each other Beyond, and nothing could have persuaded Dean to give that up, not even for Sam's life. Especially not Sam's life, Dean was sure. No, souls were untouchable.

Which meant Sam had consented.

Dean huffed in frustration and shut the laptop. The only answers it held were ones he couldn't accept.

He rose, stretching, staring impassively at the other bed. Sam slept peacefully, and Dean wondered about the lack of nightmares. He debated briefly if he trusted this pale version of his brother enough to let his guard down to sleep, but there was no reason not to. Sam wouldn't have stayed if he didn't want to, and had no vested interest in harming Dean. He wouldn't be jumping in front of any blows meant for his brother, either, but Dean could live with the letter of that law if not the motive. His new partner had more to gain from staying than from leaving, and as long as he did, Dean would keep him. That desire to stay and hunt with him, he acknowledged with mirthless honesty, was the only thing he appreciated about this half of Sam.

Dean kicked off his shoes in silence and lay down fully clothed, uncomfortable with even that show of vulnerability in such company. It was almost one a.m., later than he'd realized, but sleep would be elusive. They were, in theory, supposed to be on the road tomorrow, on their way to Grand Junction, Tennessee, to check out some child disappearances. But trust in Sam not to kill him in his sleep—for now—didn't mean trust while hunting. Dean had no doubt he'd be left to fend for himself it things got tight. No, he had to fix Sam before it came to that.

So how did you find a missing soul, let alone put it back?

It was Dean who had the nightmares that night, and his brother never woke once.

00000

"Come on." A hand shook his shoulder. "We should go."

Sam's voice. Sam's touch. For a moment, Dean hoped.

Then the lack of inflection sunk in, and he looked up into the flat hazel eyes, and the hope scattered.

He pushed himself up groggily, groaning as he looked at the clock and saw it was just after six. "Why do we have to go so early?"

"We'll miss traffic," came the inexorable reply as Sam packed his duffel.

Right. Because getting to Tennessee an hour sooner would make such a big difference. Dean sighed and rose, heart dragging somewhere in the soles of his feet at the complete stranger a few feet away. Sam felt even more foreign than he had the day before, as if whatever shreds of humanity that might have lingered had bled away during the night. Not that Dean had seen any sign of such earlier, but… Well, how ironic was it that he'd ended up being the optimist of the pair?

He went to take a shower, closing his eyes against the hot spray as he returned to the puzzle of the night before. Okay, Sam wouldn't give up his soul. Period. And he couldn't lose his soul unwillingly. So what did that leave? Maybe he'd been tricked out of it? Given consent without meaning to? Did deals like this even have such loopholes?

Dean toweled himself off slowly. What if that wasn't even the point, the how? Maybe he should just concentrate on the solution. Like, if you couldn't have your soul stolen, maybe it wasn't gone for good? Maybe they could get it back if it wasn't rightfully lost, sort of like a deal-breaker. As soon as Dean figured out who the deal had been made with. Or maybe…maybe all it took to get it back was wanting it, just like you had to want to lose it.

Maybe he was getting more than a little desperate.

Dean wiped off part of the mirror and started to shave. He looked bad, like he'd been the one out having _fun_ last night, not Sam. His eyes were almost as hollow as his brother's.

What if it was that easy, the voice in his head persisted. Ask and ye shall receive. Sam didn't want his soul back, so it stayed gone. It was as good a theory as any. Actually, it was Dean's only theory, which made it shiny and perfect. Now he just had to figure out how to test it.

Dean switched his razor to his other hand and swung the bathroom door open. "Sam?"

"Yeah."

"I want you to try something for me."

"What?" Suspiciously. The dark emotions had all remained.

"Try wanting your soul back?" he asked hopefully.

"No."

Yeah, nothing was ever that easy. "Aw, c'mon, Sam," Dean wheedled before realizing that method was useless now with Sam's even more nonexistent sense of humor. "Look, I don't think it'll do anything, but humor me and let me shoot down a theory."

"No." No anger, no resentment, just simple denial.

Dean rinsed his face off, then leaned on the sink a moment, eyes closed. Shaking himself, he began to dress. Slowing as another idea occurred. He tilted back toward the door. "You think about what Dad's gonna say?"

"About what?"

This was stupid. It was stupid and it wouldn't work, but it was all he could think of. "You. You're not his son anymore, you know. He's not going to want you around."

Silence. Another ended conversation, or just trying to find a response? Dean glanced out into the room and saw Sam standing uncertainly by the bed. Then a small shrug. "It doesn't matter." He looked Dean's way. "We should go."

"Yeah, okay." Shrugging into his shirt, and more bravado than even he was used to, Dean walked out of the bathroom. "You know you can't stay with me this way, either."

Sam looked up at him, brow furrowed. "But you said—"

"Yeah, I said you could come back with me. That doesn't mean we're just gonna keep hunting… Sam." He had to force the name out.

The frown deepened. It was the first time this Sam seemed anything less than self-assured, but Dean didn't dare let himself hope again, not yet. "Fine," Sam said finally. "I'll go back to school."

"You don't have a place there anymore," Dean said quietly, firmly. "Your girlfriend died in a suspicious fire—you think they're going to just accept you back?"

Like a computer without programming, Sam suddenly seemed lost. "Dad…"

It was working. Even if he didn't love, Sam still needed a place to belong. Love just made the need tender, but Dean had counted on it being there even without the emotional attachment. His tone grew steely. "Dad won't have anything to do with you, I'll make sure of it. Same with every other player in the book. There's no place for someone like you."

Oddly, that seemed to steady the other, as if he'd just figured out the rules of the game they were playing. The dark eyes lost their confusion and grew cool again. "Okay, I get it." Hands on hips in a gesture so Sam, it made Dean's throat ache. "What do you want?"

Dean took a stiff step closer to him. "Recant. Want it back. If it doesn't work, you can still stay with me. But you listen to me, Sam—I'll know if you really tried."

"That's all?" came the skeptical response.

Dean raised both hands. "That's it. It's the one idea I've got, Sam—prove to me it doesn't work and I'll leave it alone." Now he was lying, but what was left of his brother was too distracted to recognize it.

The lean figure folded onto the edge of the bed. "Fine."

Dean sat down opposite him, and watched the unfamiliar eyes close, the brow crease ever so slightly. And prayed.

Moments passed. Nothing happened. The bitter hopelessness that rose in Dean was choking.

The sudden light made him flinch away, covering his eyes. And then it was gone, just the two of them. Him and…

Sam's eyes opened. Stared at him in puzzlement for a moment. Then flooded with dismay and remorse. "Dean…," he breathed.

Dean took a long-held breath. Sam. It was his Sam. Touchy-feely, conscience-ridden, loving Sam.

Dean had never wanted to hit his brother so badly.

"Sam. Thank God you're…" He shot to his feet, grabbing his jacket off the end. "I need some air."

Sam's tentative voice stopped him almost at the door. "Dean, I…" There was a long pause, then, quietly, "Come back when you're done. Please."

Dean looked back at him, taking in the defeated slump of his shoulders, the way his eyes had gone bloodshot in the last ten seconds. "I always come back, Sammy," he said softly, and walked out.

00000

He didn't leave so he could think.

Thinking was really the last thing Dean wanted to do. Thinking or remembering. Or dwelling—that one was all Sam's. So was the brooding. No, Dean just needed to…breathe. Get away a little bit from brothers who reminded him of not-brothers and maybe a little bit of himself. Use up some energy. And not think. Definitely not think about what his brother was like under that soul of his.

Not cruel, and there was something to that. If the superego and ego were all that was keeping that nasty id in check—and, yeah, he knew some freaking Freud, thank you very much—then stripped of a soul, most people would have gone very, very dark. Sam had taken a shower without offering to let Dean go first, refused to promise to back him up on a hunt, and engaged in a little back-alley sex. It was hardly serial killer material.

Not that Dean was thinking about this.

Or about how he'd be feeling now in Sam's place, with the underbelly of his soul showing for Dean and all creation to see. Dean would have been mortified, and he wasn't even the sensitive one who turned red whenever a woman in a bar whispered in his ear. Sam would hate the anonymous sex, but he would really be beating himself up for what he'd done to Dean.

No, it would bother Dean too much to think about any of that. So much so that he might find himself turning back and standing…

In front of their room door. Dean made a face, and unlocked the door and went in.

He'd been gone maybe an hour, and at first glance it looked like Sam hadn't budged from his spot on the bed. Then Dean noticed the red hands.

"What the—?" He stepped forward, frowning, and carefully took hold of one wrist, turning Sam's hand palm-up. The skin was warm to touch and rough. "What happened?" he demanded.

Sam hadn't met his eyes since that first moment after the light. "Nothing," he said mutedly, pulling free of Dean. "I took a shower."

"In what, boiling water?" Dean pulled the sleeve up, not missing his brother's flinch, to find more red skin. "Sam—"

A shake of the arm covered up the evidence again. "I just scrubbed a little too hard, okay?"

Dean stood back to eye him, assessing the clothing choice of a long-sleeved flannel shirt and sweatpants. He should have noticed the odd combination as soon as he walked in. Wouldn't rate high on the fashion charts, but it was maximum coverage with minimal chafing. Dean sank down onto his bed, knees inches from his little brother's. "Sam," he started helplessly again.

"I get it, Dean, okay?" Sam stood, began making the bed that soul-free Sam apparently hadn't seen any point to doing. "I messed up."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the taut back—heck, taut everything. Gone was the streamlined efficiency, leaving one frazzled and complete, imperfectly emotional human being. Whom he loved with all his heart and who loved him back now, too, even if some part of him apparently hadn't wanted to. Dean cleared his throat. "You want to tell me what that was about?"

Sam stopped, straightened, his back still to Dean.

"Or not," Dean shrugged, "I don't—"

Sam twisted around, eyes deep and bright. "I didn't agree to it. The demon was…talking about how you were losing your soul, a little bit at a time, and I knew that. I've been seeing it all along. It said it could save you—"

"And you believed that?" Dean asked sharply because just when he thought this couldn't get any worse, God and Sammy smacked him in the face again. If all this was because of him…

"No! Even if it could do it, I knew it wouldn't…I mean, giving in would just make things worse. But I guess I let my guard down somehow. I don't know, Dean, maybe I thought about it for a second or was tempted or something, and the next thing I knew…"

Dean wished very much he had something to throw. Something that would shatter. Preferably the demon's head. "So…you remember it all?" he asked reluctantly.

"Every word," Sam whispered.

Dean brushed a hand through his hair. Research he could manage; slaying things was a piece of cake. Sam's anguish left him feeling uncertain and helpless, especially when Dean was still figuring out what he himself felt.

Then again, when Sam needed him, when had that ever mattered?

Sam sat down across from him, looked him in the eye, and took the question out of his hands. "It told me, Dean. It _showed _me_. _You, twenty years down the line, still doing the job but dead inside. You give up your soul, too, you just do it a little at a time, fight by fight. Mine just went faster."

"That doesn't solve anything, Sam," Dean said tightly.

"I know." Those full eyes dropped down to his raw hands. "I know. I'm sorry."

Dean knew why Sam had tried to rub his skin off. Dean had been possessed before, and hadn't been able to take a hot enough shower or scrub hard enough to get the feel of violation off him. There was no third party involved now, but knowing it was all _you_ probably didn't feel a whole lot better.

He opened his mouth, shut it again. He suddenly felt too far away and slid over to sit next to Sam. Who stiffened at the proximity but didn't pull away. Dean's resentment melted from his brother's warmth. "Hey," he said quietly, and nudged Sam with one elbow. Sam's eyes slid from his lap to the sliver of bedspread between them. "You recanted because you wanted to stay. Not that I'm surprised—I mean, who wouldn't want to be with me?" Sam's soft snort a moment later raised Dean's hopes. "But that was you, even without a soul."

Sam was silently listening.

"I don't like it, but…I understand it, okay?"

A pause, then Sam nodded slowly.

"You ever pull something like this again, though," Dean said earnestly, "and we're going to Sin City to take advantage, all right? Fair warning." There was only so much heart-to-heart he could stand, especially if he was doing all the talking. If Sam needed to talk later, he would listen. Would even be grateful for it, for once.

It took another minute, but Sam finally succumbed, mouth curling. "Better me than you. No one would be able to tell the difference."

Dean swallowed a laugh and laid a hand over his heart. "That hurts me, Sammy. That really does. At least I buy a girl a couple of drinks and go back to her place."

Sam's head dropped forward, a curtain of hair obscuring his eyes, and groaned. "Oh, God."

Dean patted him on the leg, not wholly unsympathetic. "That's okay, I'm sure even without a soul you were a gentleman."

"I'm gonna take another shower," Sam said, standing.

"No," Dean snagged his sleeve, not wanting to touch skin. "You're not. You've sandpapered off enough layers—I'll find you some ointment or something to put on it."

"Dean—"

His fingers wrapped around Sam's wrist gently. "Sam. Let it go. Trust me." Another quality Sam had lost with his soul.

Sam was trying to smile, tentatively, like he wasn't sure how to do it anymore but would try for Dean. And Dean reflected that he'd never lose his soul, to a demon or the job, as long as Sam was in his life. He would make sure his brother knew that, too…just in case there was a next time.

Dean almost swatted him on the knee, rethought that, and nodded at him instead as he stood to dig out their first aid kit. "I'll get that stuff for your skin, then you ready to go?"

"Let's get out of here," Sam said with passion. Something else Dean had missed.

"You sure you don't want to find your friend from last night? Get her number?" Dean couldn't resist because, well, _he_ hadn't changed. And he'd missed the teasing almost as much as the dewy eyes.

Sam threw a pillow at him. Apparently, he was getting back to his normal touchy self, too.

Thank God.

**The End**


End file.
